


Corruptive Exploitation

by kibasniper



Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (Archie Comic)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Brainwashing, During Canon, Gen, Hatred, Lamentation, Mind Control, POV First Person, the comics are cancelled and i have the power to write angst of an extremely minor canon character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 07:30:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18205385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kibasniper/pseuds/kibasniper
Summary: Bearenger isn't sure if there was ever a time when he could say his will was his own.





	Corruptive Exploitation

Among the three of us, I’m the one with the most hatred. I can feel it bubbling over and over so much in my gut that I think it’ll eventually spew out of my mouth like red hot froth. Fueling and warming me from the inside to the point of nausea, it’s the only sensation running through me that I can rightfully say was ever mine.

I’d always been temperamental. When I was a kid, my mom used to say that I’d get in trouble for letting my anger control me. She’d nag me until my ears would ring, and in time, I’d managed to memorize her lectures, but she’s not around anymore to think of new idioms. She’s been reduced to scrap metal in one of Eggman’s factories too many years ago, and her face is but a distant memory.

If only I actually listened to her, then maybe the punch I’d give out would actually belong to me. I wouldn’t be bashing in someone’s face who didn’t deserve it. I love the thrill of the fight, but only if it all comes from me. The power and control, I should be the one commanding my own strength, but her magic was too poignant, and down, down, down I fell deeper into the hole she dug out for us children.

I can’t climb out of it. There’s no light guiding any of us out of this trap. Faint hues of pink sometimes surround my vision like will-o-wisps in the pungent darkness. Occasionally, I’ll see flickers of battlefields, of dirt grounds or thick forests usually. I’ll smell oil from Wendy’s cart and catch glimpses of glimmering crystal out of the corner of my eye. There’s also the stench of blood that follows me everywhere I’m forced to go, but even someone like me can get so sick of that rich, coppery odor staining my hands for years to come.

Words will spit past my teeth, and those are mine. Every word is coated in a hue of burning scarlet. She’ll amplify my rage, and off I’ll go, roaring at the top of my lungs for the kick of cracking someone’s skull open. I’ll batter, bash, and break as long as there’s breath in my lungs, as long as Wendy deems me useful in her conquest for reasons I never cared for and never will.

Fighting makes me feel alive. It’s all I have even when my moves aren’t my own.

There’s something inside of me now. I was vaguely aware of it when Eggman was putting it inside my right ear. It stings sometimes like salt in an open wound. It was shiny, metallic, and I think it was called an injector. Maybe it was called something else.

All I know is that I’m trapped forever. The moment that device was inserted in my ear, my fate was sealed. I had a brief reprieve with Falke and Carrotia, a moment of fresh air and wrath that I had longed for in so long, but now, I’m bound to Eggman forever all because of an itchy scrap of metal smaller than a piece of butterscotch candy threatening to immobilize me for the rest of my life.

Although, I think it’s fair to say that’s almost how I had been living from the moment Wendy imposed herself on us three pathetic kids. We’re frozen unless she gives us the command the move. We fight only when she tells us to battle some random enemy, but I guess that’s the time I feel alive the most. It’s a twisted, bitter irony that tastes like bile on my tongue.

Living in motion, living in stillness, it’s all the same. Right now, I can’t imagine why those Hooligans would willingly choose to work for Eggman. All I want is freedom, but looking over at them, those self-proclaimed mercenaries, as they surround the vaults of Castle Acorn, revilement twists in my gut. They’ve made their bed of roses, and they can lie in it for all I care, thorns and all, and I hope they do end up bound in those thorns just like the magic that pierces my brain, forcing me to march to the tune of Wendy’s will.

I’ll savor that brief moment of freedom Mordred and Conquering Storm gave us. For the first time in forever, I was myself. Carrotia and Falke, they were, too. We all had control over our bodies for mere minutes before it was stripped away, and we became lifeless once again, stripped of our souls and bodies as she sneered at us like always.

If I could scream, then I’d roar at those Freedom Fighters to stop me even as I bash in the skulls of innocent Acorn guards. I’d love for nothing more than to be stopped, to be punched so hard that the injector falls out and brings my senses back to reality.

No one can stop me, though, because it isn’t my choice. I’m weak and strong at the same, a pathetic walking contradiction. My power is unmatched, but my mind is more malleable than clay. If Wendy commands me to grow more enraged and unleash more power than my body can manage, then so be it. I might as well destroy myself in the process.

I can’t even call this living. It’s puppetry. We’re all puppets under her cruel, twisted thumb. We bellow and laugh, we twist and turn, and it’s to the beat of her spellbinding drum.

I don’t know the year anymore. I can’t even remember the names of our old friends before our time as the Witchcarters. I’m not even sure if I can be who I used to be long before Wendy barged into our lives.

All I know is that I’m angry, and I want to hurt someone. Pushing my pain onto someone else, making them feel that same bitterness, it’s the only way I can ease some of this desperation aching in my chest, and I think Carrotia and Falke feel the same way.

There must be something more to this facsimile called life. Something happy, something sad, anything that isn’t someone else’s control weighing down on my mind and dragging my body along by weathered threads.

Still, it’s hopeless. We’ll never be free of her control as the cavalry arrives to stop us. All that’s left inside of me is searing heat dyed in a brilliant vermillion burning me alive. Maybe I should take that one feeling for granted because someday, I don’t think I’ll feel anything anymore.


End file.
